


Crystal rose

by FeyCroix



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Madness, Snippets, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 12:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15606615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeyCroix/pseuds/FeyCroix
Summary: The human mind is not made to exist for centuries. Madness creeps into thoughts and deeds especially when trauma of dark pasts can't be forgotten. Everyone has to find it's own light and way in a world of darkness.





	Crystal rose

**Author's Note:**

> Found this little scene in an old notebook of mine, translated and polished it a little. Sadly English is not my native language and I'm really rusty.
> 
> The characters are from an old role playing campaign but the scene never so happened. Sadly we never finished the story but my character never really left me and I started writing little scenes and ideas. I don't know if I will continue this and in what form. But I just didn't want it to sit on my computer untouched and unread.

The black waters were gleaming with the uncountable, tiny lights of the city. Viscous like oil it lapped on its shores. A dark, growling beast of prey waiting to swallow whatever fell into it's gaping maw. This river had swallowed so much in it's time; swallowed and and carried away. Oh, she remembered. She remembered it's cold embrace. The watery fingers reaching for her, groping, pulling, searching a way inside her body and dragging her down into soft, sandy depths.

The need to breath became overpowering then, filling her lungs with ice, silent and peaceful. It becomes overpowering now and her shuddering breath breaks the silence of her dim, tranquil room.  
Before the sparkling city and the sluggish river stands her faint mirror image. A pallid girl surfaced on a dark window. Soft fingers trailing the outline of high cheekbones and a small,straight nose; the glass smooth and cold to the touch so much like the original. The eyes of her reflection are dark like the waters behind them, not the soft blue light her Sire loved so much, but oh so fitting. Full, icy lips meet a cold, tasteless surface and she doesn't know why she expected different or even what she expected.

“Some may think you vain”, a sneering whisper pulls her out of her reverie. She closes her eyes when long fingers comb through the golden rats nest that is her hair tonight. She never told him how much she is enamored with his voice, how much she relishes in his touch. She would never hear the end of it.  
“Idain”, oh his voice just above silence; a darkness that connects to her soul, pulling her to the surface when she doesn't care she was drowning.  
“I remembered”, she tastes the words rolling from her tongue, revels in the feeling of her lips forming them. His touch anchors her and for a tiny moment she recognizes how bad she has it today.  
“I didn't expect you today, Whisper”, she withdraws from his addicting touch to turn around. For a moment she loses herself in the swishing of her skirts and the feeling of silk on her skin. But whisper draws her attention. He always does. His clothing is spotless as ever. The dark suit a stark contrast to his porcelain face and the wisps of snow that is his hair. Eyes even bluer than hers – shimmering pink when the light is right – gazing upon her. Idain can see a hunger there, more alive than the river outside but just as dark. He is the only one with unlimited access to her home. Because whats her home when he has been in her heart an mind for the longest time. They are two of a kind, bonded by necessity and time. She doesn't partake in the same privileges. He's much more secretive than her.  
“What may I do for you”, she asks because he wont say anything until she does. He always takes, never asks except you offer anyway. Memories of how she knows this flow through her mind like water. Bubbling up, filling her but dribbling through her fingers. Images and feelings like wiggling worms. She shakes her head, trying to lose the maggots in her brain.  
It's one of those days she doesn't leave the house. A day for idle dillydally or true masterpieces. It doesn't matter. This days are for the past and with a past as long as hers they grow in number every year. Idain knows its a mark of insanity, but what are centuries without a little madness. True art through mania. Laughter bubbles through her lips, starting as a small giggle and growing to a howling laugh. She falls silent when her fingers touch the smooth wooden surface of the harp. The young woman blinks. She is sitting on her favorite hassock, stroking her precious instrument. The harp the first instrument she learned to play and till the invention of the violin her dearest. It is a massive instrument of dark European spruce with detailed carvings of a hundred of feathers. A serene smile touches her lips when she coaxes the first notes out of it.  
“For the moment... just play for me.” The raging river of her mind stills to a pond so dark and deep no one ever saw it's bottom. Idain closes her eyes and soft notes take wing. She flies with them. A calmness envelopes her. She feels homely, peaceful: Eternity should be like this - it isn't; she knows that – music and the rustling of paper.  
Minutes or hours later she stills her hands.  
“What did you remember?”, Whisper unrolls from the dark blue armchair like a sleepy python.  
“I remembered drowning”, Idain withdraws from her instrument. She can't bear the distance between them and settles on his armrest. These thoughts are nonsense but she doesn't bother. Its easier to give in and much more enjoyable, “and of all the other things we have thrown in.”  
A fond smile flits over her face. Whisper laughs, it's nearly soundless but much more open than she hoped for. With delicate fingers she snatches the paper from his grasp. The image of an angel with a serene smile captured on paper with sparse, artistic strokes. An angel with her face.  
“Who is the one delusional now?” He snorts and snatches it back. Carefully he puts it away.  
“The Prince wants to see you. Somehow he learned of your presence in his city.” His voice drips of amusement and Idain sighs. Contrary to her Whisper relishes in political games and this nights are full of them.  
“I'm not in the mood today”, she is picking at a loose thread on the armrest, “do you know what he wants?”  
The man pries her fingers off the old fabric.  
“A lowly vassal like me. You overestimate my worth.” He possesses the audacity to smile at her. She tugs at a white strand of hair till he grunts dutiful.  
“You are the biggest liar in all of London.”


End file.
